TIME flies when you are having fun, so the old saying goes – and it is true. Take, for example, the occasion when a particularly amorous lady and I found ourselves so engrossed in a bout of lustful, energetic intercourse that neither of us noticed my posterior ramming into the bed-side cabinet with such vigour that it sent an alarm clock soaring through the air and out of the window. Time did indeed fly that day, and we would have both been quite unaware of this had the clock not chosen to fly into the face of a passing matron. Suffice to say, I was not invited back to that hospital again, and the nurse with which I was entwined was suspended from her duties. Ah, precious memories! 

And to think, it has now been a decade since I took quill to hand and began sharing such memories with you, my adoring general public. Since that fateful day, the course of literature would be changed forever more; Mr. Charles Dickens ceased work on his novel Edwin Drood fearing (quite rightly) that it would not measure up to my astonishing adventures, revealing himself as the half-witted charlatan he truly was, while elsewhere Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle killed off his most famous creation, Sherlock Holmes, after having to accede that the so-called ‘Great Detective’ was nothing more than a cheap, less dashing facsimile of my glorious self, and his adventures mere parodies of my own extraordinary exploits. Ten years on, and hardly anyone remembers this ‘Sherlock Holmes’ character, while Lord Likely remains on the lips of every man and woman throughout the land. Sometimes, quite literally.

Thus, my Astonishing Adventures have easily secured their place in the pantheon of literary greats, alongside Chaucer, Shakespeare and whoever it is who pens the delightful strip-cartoon about the comical drunken vagabond which graces the pages of the London Illustrated News-Sheet. And this success, this astounding legacy is all thanks to you, my loyal readers. Well, more accurately it is clearly thanks to me, for I have done all the hard work in having said adventures and then chronicling them, after all. I do not believe that a single one of you has offered to help me out in transcribing my tales, or deigned to come along and empty my bins while I lock myself away and craft, craft, craft. Not a jot of it. Lazy, that is your trouble. Sheer bloody laziness.

Where was I? Oh yes, thanking you, the reader. Thank you, dear reader!

While literary immortality is already ensured for me, I do not intend to stop there and rest upon my laurels. For one thing, I do not wish to crumple my laurels. Have you ever had crumpled laurels? A terrible thing it is, for a man to have crumpled laurels. Thus, while we stop to reflect on a damnably thrilling decade already passed, we must also find ourselves moist and throbbing with anticipation at the future that lies ahead – and what a future it is! There shall be revelries abound for sure, but perhaps the most exciting of all shall be the publication of my brand-new adventure – The Bellending Club. If you thought that the adventures I have shared so far were sphincter-loosening in their astonishment, then…well, you would be quite correct. That is the correct observation. But the adventures to come shall literally blast your colons inside-out with astonishment. LITERALLY, so brace yourselves, and your trousers.

So! Let us celebrate that which I have done then, but also that which I have yet to do but will do, and then we shall celebrate that which will have been done alongside that which I had already previously done. There shall be a lot of celebrating, simply put.

In summary: HUZZAH FOR ME!

Toodle-pip!

Lord Likely.

Keep in touch with his lordship for further news about his tenth anniversary celebrations – including the forthcoming release of his new tome – by following him on the Book of Faces, or via the Twittering Device. One might also sign up for his noble newsletter, to be kept fully abreast of his doings, and for the chance to win prizes and obtain FREE things.

This magnificent, undergarment-dampening image is the cover for my forthcoming electronic book, ‘The Bellending Club’, finally due to be issued forth NEXT MONTH (i.e in June).

It has been an admittedly long road to this very point, with ideas scrapped, titles changed, and so much whisky consumed that I lost three months to a drunken stupor. But finally, my debut novel is nearing completion, ready to be thrust into your quivering, shaking hands in a mere matter of WEEKS. Gods be praised! Double whiskies all round!

But what is this mysterious Bellending Club? Who is the unfortunate fellow lying in a pool of his own claret? And what have I to do with all of this unpleasantness? All we be revealed in due course, my dear readers, with plenty more teasing to be done in the upcoming days, like the foreplay to a particularly satisfying bout of intercourse.

Do feel free to subscribe to my magnificent mailing list to be informed of further developments first, and of course join me ‘pon the Facebook and Twitter as well – you shall not want to miss a thing, lest you be cast out by your peers.

Until the next time,

Toddle-pip!

– Lord Likely.

AS REGULAR readers of these journals will be aware, I am deep in the midst of writing my first ever novel, due for release in the coming months. As anticipation mounts, I thought I would spare some of my precious time to help YOUR literary ambitions, by revealing some useful tips I have learnt over the course of writing this book. My benevolence knows no bounds! 

Here then, is my invaluable and incomparable writing advice. Quills at the ready, ladies and gentle-men!

1. Master the basics.

 My first writing tip would be to make sure that you are writing with the TIP of your writing implement. I can still recall, with considerable pain, the time when I composed an epic fantasy trilogy, comprising three, 900-word tomes, only to find that I had been using the wrong end of my quill throughout the entire enterprise. I had to restart the process from scratch, this time with actual ink on paper, but gave up after the first paragraph as I was so ruddy dispirited by the whole affair at that point. I cannot stress this enough: USE THE RIGHT END.

2. Write it yourself, you lazy cur.

Some lazy, less-talented individuals may decide to take a back seat and employ a ghost-writer to pen their book. This is a false economy indeed, for a ghost-writer cannot hold any sort of writing implement without it passing straight through their hand, so are utterly, utterly useless. In addition, they spend most of their time wailing and moaning and clanking chains, which I get quite enough of from my servants, thank you very much. No, nothing beats your own authentic voice, and furthermore you would not end up wasting so much of your time cleaning ectoplasm off of all your surfaces.

3.  Grab your readers by the balls – the eyeballs, that is – AND NEVER LET THEM GO. 

You have very little time in which to grab your reader’s attention and to keep it. Your readers are busy people, with things to do and other opening paragraphs to read. You need to make an impact, and make an impact FAST, like a rotund gentle-man plummeting off of a diving board. Make the very first word of the book something eye-catching, like ‘KABOOM!’ ‘POW!’ or ‘BREASTS!’ Hook the reader in, then batter them into submission against the tree-stump of your writing. Throw them, blinking and disoriented, straight into the action, as I have done, as demonstrated by this chapter heading from my own forthcoming tome:

Perfect. Absolutely ruddy perfect.

4. Character is key. 

Your characters are everything. Without sufficiently interesting and complex characters, you may as well simply deposit your manuscript beside the toilet, and leave it for others to wipe their filthy backsides on, as that would be the only use it would have to offer. Of course, in my case I am drawing from my own life experiences, and I am a most interesting and complex character indeed, not to mention devilishly handsome, strong, well-endowed and ridiculously attractive. The rest of you can try to make a character as immediately appealing as I (ha! Good luck!) but if all else fails, simply go through your manuscript and replace your main protagonist’s name with the words ‘Lord Likely’ instead. Guaranteed success awaits!

5. Keep your writing fresh.

You may spend hours, days maybe even a few weeks writing your magnum opus, but how do you prevent your writing getting stale as time marches on and your attention span wavers? If you get bored of your work, you can bet every farthing you have that your readers will get bored too, and may well slip into a coma. A coma that YOU caused by your tedious scribblings! To prevent that idea from playing on your conscience, be sure to keep plenty of alcohol on stand-by. I find that I am constantly surprised and thrilled by my own writing if I propel myself into a state of blind, roaring drunkenness as I write. I never know what may flow forth from my sozzled brain, and it is always a delight to return to a manuscript-in-progress the next morning with no recollection of what I wrote the night before. Needless to say, it is ALWAYS astounding.

6. Editing is for the weak.

This may be something approaching heresy among writing circles, but I firmly believe that editing is completely superfluous to requirements, a giant literary con perpetuated by editors over the years to give them something to do. As far as I’m concerned, if you cannot get your story perfect on the first go, then you have no business being in writing and may as well jab the pen right in your eye and slit your own throat with the side of a sheet of paper. If you so much as embark upon a second draft, then you are effectively saying that you are a weak, pathetic creature who cannot write for toffee. A builder does not get to go back, pull some bricks out of his newly-constructed house, and replace them with new ones. A soldier cannot run into a battlefield, and then ask for a second try afterwards as there were some things they felt they could improve upon. You get one shot at everything in life, and writing, I feel, should be no different. As the old adage goes: “If at first you don’t succeed, give up, you terrible, terrible failure.”

7. Ignore writing guides.

There are a lot of other writers who spend their time trying to tell you how to write, and I can guarantee that each and every one of them will be espousing nothing more than complete and utter arse-water. None of them REALLY know what they are doing, for they are all far too drunk to have any firm grasp of what is going on. Some of them may have attained some sort of triumph and think they now know all the answers, but they do NOT. They simply got lucky, and stumbled into success like a drunkard tumbling into a hedge, and in both cases, they’ve ended up somewhere, but have no recollection of how exactly they got there. If writers truly knew what worked, they would have bottled it and used it to guarantee that every single book they write is a smash-hit success and spent their hours swimming about in a vat of gold coins rather than helping the likes of you, you ignorant pauper.

No-one knows what they are doing, no-one has the answers, no-one is your mentor. Except for me, naturally. And now that I have spoken, go forth and do as I do, and I can GUARANTEE* that you shall be writing the next best-seller.

Toodle-pip!

– Lord Likely.

*guarantee not guaranteed.

Lord Likely’s first novel will be available soon. To keep up-to-date with the latest developments, please sign up to his news-letter right now. Or not, but then it would be your loss, to be honest.

As a well-respected, much admir’d and hugely desired member of the English Aristocracy, I have been oft-interviewed by newspaper reporters and the like. It was during one such interview, conducted by an agreeable gent from The London Illustrated Picture-Print News, that I let slip that I had been keeping a diary, a diary which I had not only kept, but written in as well. Within its pages I had kept careful record of each and every one of my astonishing adventures, replete (in some instances) with saucy etchings. This incredible revelation was reprinted in the newspaper article itself, which in turn sparked a furious bidding war between the many publishing houses of Great Britain, all of whom wished to get their hands upon my journals and transform them into the Greatest Books Ever Printed.

It began with three publishing houses: Poppycock Press, Chaffinch Books and Fibber&Fibber, all of whom put in terribly good offers for the rights to my desirable diaries. Then each tried to outbid the other, driving the price ever skyward.

This was, of course, good news for me, but alas it was not so good for the publishers, each of whom now stood the chance of bleeding their companies dry in the pursuit of my excellence. Eventually, the heads of Poppycock Press and Fibber&Fibber, (Mr. Jasper Poppycock and Mr. Farnaby Fibber, respectively), held a secret meeting in a tavern, whereby they decided to join forces in a bid to spread the financial burden of acquiring my work, and to muscle Chaffinch Books out of the running.

However, word got back to Mr. Gill Sans, the head of Chaffinch Books, who was, naturally, rather incensed about this clandestine deal. So incensed was he, that he hired an assassin to take out the two men involved. The assassin, who specialised in deeply ironic deaths, dispatched Mr. Fibber by stabbing him in the eye with a quill, the very quill Mr. Fibber had just used to sign a contract for the publication of an anthology  of true crime stories.

The assassin never got the chance to eliminate Mr. Poppycock, however, for Scotland Yard caught up with him shortly thereafter, and found him in possession of a business-card from Mr. Sans, along with a signed proof of a forthcoming novel to be published by Chaffinch Books, and a lithograph of the two men together, toasting their deal.

Needless to say, when word got out of Mr. Sans’ indiscretion, all ruddy hell broke out. Mr. Poppycock again joined forces with Fibber&Fibber, allying with the sole remaining Fibber, a Mr. Flaubert Fibber. They hired their own armed mercenaries to storm the offices of Chaffinch Books and to execute its president. However, Mr. Chaffinch had got wind of their scheme, and sent his own armed mercenaries out to take care of Messers. Poppycock and Fibber.

What actually transpired was that fighting broke out across the heart of London’s literary scene in Paternoster Row, when the two forces collided. Bloody, violent clashes took place, with soldiers falling left, right and centre. Overseeing the carnage from their plush offices, the heads of the respective forces began sending in reinforcements made up of their own employees, office workers poorly equipped to deal with life on the battlefields.

The Great Bidding War, as it was later dubbed, lasted for three long days, during which some two hundred and seventy mercenaries lost their lives, along with thirty-two proof-readers, sixteen editors, five cover designers and one publisher (Mr. Poppycock perished leading his forces into battle on horseback on the second day). Many trendy coffee bars were destroyed in the carnage, along with a couple of ale houses and a milliner’s shop.

Mr. Sans was eventually captured by a small team of soldiers and a shirtless Mr. Flaubert Fibber, who decided to finally get rid of his business rival by hurling him into his own printing presses. “Well, he had always wanted to be in books,” Mr. Fibber is rumoured to have quipped at the time, possibly while lighting a cigar.

The worst thing about  this whole, sorry affair is that the devastation left in the wake of The Great Bidding War was so huge, the publishing houses involved all fell into bankruptcy trying to pay for it all, so I never did get my publishing deal. Tsk! War, eh? What is it good for? Absolutely bloody nothing.

Still, I am never one to allow the massacre of hundreds get in the way of publishing my memoirs, and so have taken matters into my own hands! Expect to see my own electronic book hit the electronic shelves very soon! In the meantime, be sure to keep yourselves abreast of the situation by subscribing to my magnificent mailing list! HUZZAH and indeed, HURRAH!

– Lord Likely.

PEOPLE often come up to me and ask, “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing with my wife?” To which I reply, “Well, if you do not recognise the act that I am performing with your wife, it is no wonder she has embarked ‘pon this affair with me, sir.” Ah, how foolish they feel thereafter, chums!

People also often ask me how one goes about publishing one’s journals ‘pon the inter-connected net-work of computation devices, to which I usually reply, “Bugger off, can you not see I am busy humping your wife?”

However, I thought I would take this opportunity today to reveal to you, my dear readers, the process involved in getting my Astonishing Adventures delivered to your eyeballs ev’ry week, so that you might fully appreciate the sheer magnitude of the work behind each episode, and maybe even pick up some handy hints for your own endeavours.

So, without further ado, let me present to you my Guide to Publishing a Webbed-Log for Distribution ‘Pon the Inter-Connected Net-Work of Computation Devices!

1. Do Something Worth Writing About.

THE FIRST step is to ensure that you have something sufficiently interesting and/or exciting to share with the globe. As an Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I am never short of thrilling tales to impart, but sadly not every one can be quite as damnably wondrous as I. If the highlight of your week is picking fluff from your naval, then you probably have nothing of interest to offer the masses, and I’d suggest that you keep such musings to yourself, or possibly publish them ‘pon the Book of Many Faces.

2. Ensure You Have the Correct Tools.

THEY SAY that it is a poor workman who blames his tools, but if ‘they’ had ever tried to build a house using nothing but a teaspoon and some glue, or repair a carriage using nothing more than a half-cooked sausage, I’d wager ‘they’ would quickly change their STUPID minds. Finding the right tool for the job is paramount to ensuring high-quality work, which is why I always insist on nothing but the VERY BEST for my Astonishing Adventures – tools such as:

PAPER, taken from trees in the ridiculously over-crowded rainforests of the Amazon.

QUILLS, made out from the feathers of the beautiful (if rather dangerous) Golden-Nibbed Eagle of the American west.

INK, extracted from the Giant Biro Octopus of the Adriatic.

Only the finest is good enough for you, dear readers!

3. Write, Or Find Someone to Write For You.

ONCE YOU have your tools, ’tis time to sit down and actually write the words themselves. Now, of course, as a busy socialite and man about town, I cannot be well expected to spend hours hunched over a desk, scribbling away into the small hours. Thankfully, that is where my scribe, Mr. Fanton, comes into play. Taking the notes I make on my adventures, it is Mr. Fanton’s job to string them together into episodic chapters, using only the very best adjectives, verbs and nouns money can buy…LEST I FLAY HIM TO WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS WRETCHED, WORTHLESS LIFE!

4. Feed The Words Into A Computational Device.

Once MR. Fanton has written up my adventures, I check over them to ensure they meet my exacting standards. If there is so much as one mis-placed apostrophe, the brute is clamped in stocks, and pelted with bricks as punishment. However, if all seems well, then the words are taken from him, and fed into a computation device, ready to be transmitted ‘cross the Empire. In my case, the device in question is called The Astonishizer Engine, a remarkable contraption developed by a Mr. Charles Babbage, which not only stores my documents and transforms my words into top-quality protons and electrons, but which also optimises them for absolute astonishment. Here is said device:

I confess I do not have an inkling as to how this machine works – I suspect some kind of supernatural influence, but Mr. Babbage assures me that it is pure science. But then, he would say that, being POSSESSED BY DEMONS.

5. Transmit Your Words.

AFTER THE Astonishizer Engine has finished its work, then the journal entry in question is ready to be TRANSMITTED across the GLOBE, and directly into the homes and eyeballs of my eager followers. Once again, how the transmission is achieved remains something of a mystery to me, but it has something to do with wires and electricity and a giant antennae atop Likely Towers. Either that, or tiny, near-invisible pigeons carry the words off across the planet, I am not entirely sure.

6. The World Rejoices!

And so, with another instalment of my Astonishing Adventures arriving in homes everywhere, all that is left to do is to bask in the glow which comes from knowing that men and women everywhere are thrilling to my latest escapades. Ah, a job well done – now onto the next chapter! Egad!

– Lord Likely.

PLEASE help us to continue funding this highly expensive and time-consuming process, by donating below, and let us continue to bring you more Astonishing Adventures for ever more!

“Here we are, Botter,” I boomed in a loud, steady voice, “This is…THE LOVE DUNGEON!”

“Crikey!” chirped Botter as he followed me out of the secret passageway, and into the new room.

‘Crikey’ was hardly a befitting exclamation with which to convey the required admiration and respect for this den of debauchery. ‘Holy Cocking Shit’, or ‘Fucking Twatting Hell’ would have been far more appropriate, I felt.

The Love Dungeon was installed beneath the Likely Mansion by Lord William Knott-Likely in the seventeenth century. Lord William is something of an embarrassment to the proud Likely name, as he was one of the few Likelys to have been born without the dashing good looks which befit our proud lineage; and to cap it all he was cursed with an incredibly tiny penis, leading to his unfortunate nickname ‘Little Willy’.

With the odds stacked so highly against him, Lord William found courtship somewhat difficult, with ladies repulsed by his vulgar features and complete lack of charm or girth. More often than not, ladies would flee from Lord William as soon as he approached them, sometimes taking the rather extreme measures of emigrating, lest they beheld his deformities any more.

Lord William became rather annoyed at this turn of events, and this annoyance led to anger, which in turn lead to a furious rage, leading him to full-on barking insanity, which set in motion the construction of the Love Dungeon, with William theorizing that women would not be able to run away from him if he kept them chained up in a dank cellar beneath his house.

The dungeon was completed within a month, and upon its completion Lord William sent out his man-servant to kidnap ladies in the middle of the night, and bring them back to the estate. Clearly holding something of a grudge against the female gender, Lord William filled the dungeon with terrible instruments of torture, and took great delight in meting out cruel and depraved punishments upon his petrified prisoners, which he found incredibly arousing.

Lord William’s awful deeds carried on for the best part of a year, until someone in the neighbouring village realised that there were a lot less women walking about, and set about trying to track them down. A group of locals followed Lord William’s man-servant on one of his kidnapping missions, and followed him back to the Likely Estate, where they were shocked to discover the Love Dungeon chock-full of less-than happy young ladies.

Lord William was driven from his home and spent his last days wandering the country, sticking his penis into anything he came across. As his mental state worsened, he wound up trying to have sex with a furnace, and died shortly thereafter.

Like I say, he was something of an embarrassment to the proud Likely name.

Since then, the Love Dungeon has remained closed off, until a few years ago when I reopened it, but refurnished it as a place for pleasure, and not pain (well, maybe a bit of pain, I confess). I destroyed Lord William’s awful instruments of torture, and replaced them with various elaborate sex-toys instead, such as The Spinning Fanny Slapper, The Spunk Cannon, The Hump-Hammock, The Whirling Titty Tickler, The Box of Delights, The Steam-Powered Flange Thudder and The Iron Maiden’s Mother-In-Law. And, naturally, I do not need to send Botter out to abduct local women either. If anything, ladies queue up to sample the delights of the Love Dungeon these days, and there is quite a waiting list for admissions.

“That is a surprisingly good question for one so naturally inclined towards idiocy,” I replied, straightening up a suit of armour sporting a rather hefty strap-on. “We cannot well stay hidden down here forever. Not without you getting some funny ideas.”

“I suppose not,” Botter said, running his hands across an anal battering ram.

“We need to do something, Botter!” I cried, sitting down on the edge of Dr. Ignoble Buttocks’ Patented Cock-Stretching Cock Rack. “We are so close to reclaiming the Likely Estate from those terrible Italian fellows. If only we were better equipped to overcome them…if only we were armed! What I wouldn’t give to have a sturdy weapon in my hand right this instant!”

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud crashing sound, as Botter knocked over a stand housing various sex-aids, sending the various implements of intercourse spilling onto the floor.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, as I picked up a Double-Ended Backdoor Invader from off of the ground.

“I…I’m sorry, milord,” Botter apologised profusely. “Please don’t hurt me!”

“Hurt you?” I beamed. “Why, I could kiss you if you weren’t so god-awfully grotesque! Botter, gather up as many of these wonderful tools as you can carry…I think I have a rather excellent plan!…”

– Lord Likely.

humor-blogs.com never leaves home without carrying a Clockwork Cock Tickler.

My increasingly inept scribe, Mr. A.D Fanton, has relaunched his comic strip-based inter-net web-site The Carrotty Kid this week, and urges you all to visit it and marvel at the wonders within. However, he has already run into a spot of bother with the new venture, which could also affect my fine journals themselves! If you can spare a moment, and maybe a ha’penny, visit The Digital Sickbag or www.thecarrottykid.co.uk and join in with Carrot Aid this instant! Many thanks!

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Botter and I arrived at the village hall moments later, to find the place swarming with awful commoners, out displaying their fruit and vegetable in a terribly tedious Fruit and Veg Contest.

I took a moment to rearrange one competitor’s display so that a carrot and two artfully-placed plums took on the appearance of the male genitalia (which amused me greatly), and then I complimented a lady on her wonderful melons, before we headed to one of the back-rooms of the hall.

“Right!” I said, slamming the door shut behind me to cut out the noise of the rabble outside. “Now to business!”

Botter looked around the small, unassuming room we now found ourselves in.

“Are…are you sure you have the right room, milord?” he asked. “There is nothing in this room but a small desk, a chair, and a large potted-plant. I can’t begin to fathom where this secret tunnel may be!”

“And that is just as it should be, my cretinous companion. Why, if the entrance to the tunnel was clear to see, it would not be much of a secret, would it now? Honestly, Botter. Do try and engage your brain from time to time.”

“Sorry milord,” Botter apologised.

“That you are, Botter. Very sorry indeed,” I said, as I strode over to the potted-plant in the corner of the room. “Now, let me just check…” I continued, as I read the name of the plant, written on a small sign stuck in the soil. “Hmmm…praeditus senior! Yes, this is definitely the one!”

“Pray-dit what?” Botter asked.

“Praeditus senior, Botter! It is Latin for ‘well-endowed lord’. Look at the plant, Botter. Just look at it! Standing tall and proud, it’s mighty stalk fully erect…this plant was named after my father, you see. Well, to be more specific, it was named after my father’s penis. It’s…rather a long story, to be honest. At any rate, this plant is the key…”

“I see,” said Botter, the vacant look in his eyes betraying this statement.

I smiled and pulled at the plant’s stalk, then pushed it back, then pulled it again. Suddenly there was a grinding sound, and a section of the wall behind the plant began to move aside, revealing a hitherto unseen entrance.

“Open sesame!” I beamed. “Come on, Botter! This will lead us back to the Likely Estate, and then we can give those filthy Italians what for!”

Botter ambled over, and peered cautiously into the tunnel.

“It looks rather tight, milord,” he observed.

“Indeed,” I said. “Maybe I should lubricate myself before forcing myself in?” Botter looked at me quizically. “No, you’re probably right,” I conceded. “We should just get going. Alright, then! You go first, just in case there is any long-dormant evil lurking in there, waiting to feast on the blood of any unsuspecting explorers.”

Botter’s face went white with fear.

“Don’t worry, you fool!” I grinned, grabbing a gaslight from atop the small desk. “It will be fine. Probably.”

Botter gulped. “Milord, I think…”

“Excellent!” I said, pushing Botter into the tunnel. “Simply excellent!”

We had been crawling through the tunnel for what seemed like an age, when Botter, (being the incredibly whinesome and wearying wank-stain that he is) began to complain.

“Are we nearly there yet, milord?” he wailed.

I stopped and sniffed the air. “Smell that?” I asked, holding my lantern up to Botter’s face. “It is the most wondrous scent of beer. I do believe we are right under the Cock and Balls Inn! I wonder if we have time to tunnel our way into the pub, and secure ourselves some booze for our journey?”

“I…I rather think we should press on, milord,” Botter replied, nervously scanning the area.

“Honestly, Botter. You are such a spoilsport sometimes. How the devil I wound up with such a
party-pooping pranny like yourself, I simply cannot fathom. It must have been – “

“What was that?” Botter asked suddenly, his head craned to the right.

“That was the sound of me berating you, you terrible anus.”

“No!” Botter cried. “I thought I heard something else. Like…like a scratching sound…”

“Nonsense, Botter. It is simply your over-active imagination. I dare say your imagination is the only active part of you.”

“SHUT UP!” snapped Botter, before quickly remembering his place. “Uh, I mean shut up, milord.“

“Botter! I would beat you completely and utterly senseless, if it was not for one thing.”

“And what is that, milord?” Botter enquired.

“There appears to be something heading straight for us, Botter,” I replied, pointing behind my man-servant. “And it appears to be entirely unfriendly…”

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something Wicked This Way Comes!

humor-blogs.com lives underground, and as such is literally beneath us all.

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I know I have just commenced upon the recollection of another of my astonishing adventures, and I acknowledge that it is rather bad form to interrupt my latest tale so soon in proceedings, but I have some news to impart to you all which simply cannot wait.

At any rate, these are my journals and I shall do as I damned well please, so shut up.

You may recall me mentioning that my wondrous journals had been nominated for an award recently, in the Performancing Awards, in the category of ‘Best Blog You’ve Never Heard Of‘. You may also remember me asking for my loyal readers to support my good and excellent self in the voting for the award, in the hope that I may win and be crowned as the best, the title of which I do not only deserve, but amply personify.

Well, I am happy to report that I did indeed win the award in question, and by quite a considerable margin. This did leave me to wonder whether I was actually the best at being unheard of, as clearly plenty of people had heard of me in order to vote. Maybe the fellow with the least amount of votes should have one this particular prize? The mind quite literally boggles.

At any rate, I am victorious, and for that I am truly grateful. I wish to thank you all for your sterling support, and your excellent button-pressing skills. It is gratifying to know that my lovely, beautiful readership are blessed with such deft digits and furiously fast fingers.

A special Palmerston-sized thank you to Lord Fiar, who alerted me to my nomination in the first place. Many thanks indeed, good sir. Award yourself a shot of your favourite liquor as a reward!

You may peruse the article hailing my victory in this article, wherein the award organiser Mr. Ryan Caldwell cites my astonishing adventures as being “original” and “quirky.” Far be it for me to look a gift horse in the mouth, I do take slight umbrage with the choice of adjective, there. Quirky to me conjures up images of the sort of witless goon one may encounter in the office or workplace, who wears brightly-coloured shirts and spends all day long quoting his favourtie comic writers and performers, in lieu of having anything actually witty to say for himself. “Oh, that fellow is most quirky,” his colleagues may say, but then I’d wager he is never invited out to join them at the local public house or staff party. Quirky indeed!

I would have thought ‘sexy’ or ‘ridiculously fantastic’ would have been a better choice of words, myself.

Anyhow, I should not grumble. I tip my quirky hat to Mr. Caldwell, and I thank you all again from the bottom of my ball-sacks. I am honestly very, very pleased to have won. And most highly aroused.

Now I shall go and drink vast quantities of champagne to celebrate, and spend all night furiously polishing my award.

And yes, I am referring to masturbation there.

Toodle-pip!

– Lord Likely.

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November 5th, 1856.

Remember, remember the fifth of November. Not because of that awful terrorist bastard Guy Fawkes, and his preposterous plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament. No, dear readers, the real reason to remember this historic day is that it is the very day that I, Lord Likely, celebrate my one-hundredth journal entry! Hurrah, and indeed, huzzah!

Who would have imagined that when I set out to transcribe my thrilling adventures in my trusted journals all those months ago, that I would still be writing them one-hundred entries later?

Well, I would have imagined it, of course, as I am cocking-well brilliant.

Naturally, to celebrate such a milestone I set about cracking open a fresh bottle of champagne – quite literally, infact, as Botter did a terrible job of opening the bottle himself, leaving me with little recourse but to smash the bottle open upon his wretched skull. Of course, he then whined and moaned and carried on about needing ‘several stitches’ to his head, but I was not going to let a bleeding man-servant ruin my celebrations, and so I carried on drinking while he passed out under the table in a pool of his own scarlet.

Happy times!

Feeling in such a reflective and celebratory mood, I thought I would re-read my journals and select my favourite moments. A surprising amount of these choice cuts seem to revolve around me injuring someone, which is why I refer to them as:

Horses, in which I give details about my collection of horses. In lesser hands, this would have been a dull entry, but I make it fascinating and fantastic, as is my way.

Aches and Pains, in which I list some of the injuries I have suffered whilst trying to remain so gloriously composed and ravishing.

Brawls I Have Known, where I recount some of my more violent sojourns to various drinking establishments around the country.

Fight to the End, in which I tackle a small army of bloodthirsty prostitutes.

The Astonishing Adventures of Lady Likely, where I recall some of the escapades of my dear mother, the errant Lady Likely.

Things I Have Stabbed, says it all, really.

Things I Have Stabbed – Part Two, also says it all, really.

Ladies I Have Loved and Lost, in which I recall a small selection of the many sexual conquests of my past.

Shopping Habits of a Lord, whereby I list some of the fine establishments I frequent when shopping.

A Wanted Man, in which I become a fugitive from the law, and have my handsome face plastered all over ‘Wanted’ posters across London Town.

Banquet and Wild, wherein I attend a party thrown in my honour, only to be forcibly ejected from said party not long after it has commenced.

Dealing with Aristocratic Anger, in which I demonstrate exactly what to expect should you find yourself disagreeing with my lordly self.

A Tidal Wave of Filth, wherein plans for my gloriously decadent Porn Library are exposed to the world.

All Rise for Her Majesty, in which I reveal my barely-concealed lust for the monarch, Queen Victoria. God Save Her!

The Likely Family Tree, in which I give a little bit of background on the Likely family.

Pounding the Palmerston, wherein I have a wank, or at least try to.

Loopy Lisa, in which I nearly wind up getting wed to something that closely resembles a man.

Lord Likely’s Schooldays, in which I recall some of my scholastic memories, some of which almost got me expelled.

If You Are Going to Party Then Party Hard, wherein I have one hell of a birthday party, and wind up many miles from home.

Quite a fine selection of wondrous writings from my incalculably incredible self there, I am sure you will agree. And I am sure you will not hesitate to join me in proposing a toast to the next one-hundred entries, and many more astonishing adventures. Especially as the booze is on me!

CHEERS!

– Lord Likely.

The Likely Centenary will continue apace for the rest of the week, where lucky readers can expect to bear witness to Lord Likely’s Birthday Honours, an all-new Likely Portrait, more recollections of his lordship’s schooldays and more besides. Chin-chin!

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